Give that Girl her Beauty Sleep!
Upstairs, a baby cries. My quiet time is over. I can tell by the voice that it's Zach, but when I open the bedroom door, Mia's head pops up over the crib rail. Nuts! I've opened the wrong door. However, the damage is done, and Mia has had a reasonable amount of sleep, so I bring both of them downstairs. Zach doesn't generally like to eat directly after a nap, but Mia does, so into the high chair she goes. She complains throughout snack time. She complains even more loudly through the diaper change that follows. She complains a little when I set her on the floor to play. She is quite manifestly not adjusting well to having been woken prematurely, but I decide to give her another few minutes. I head upstairs to wash my hands. While I'm there - this takes, what, 90 seconds? - I hear an ungodly wailing from the dining room. A pause, then a scream, a pause, then a scream. Awful screaming. Ear-piercing, bone-chilling, nightmare-inducing, fingernails-down-the-blackboard screaming. When I race downstairs, at speeds that put my life, or at least my ankles, in serious jeopardy, tiny Mia somehow towers over the much larger boys. All 27 inches of her are rigid with rage. Her face is red and tear-streaked. One might reasonably imagine that one of the boys had injured her in some way, but not once one had seen the boys' faces: Every one of the three are wide-eyed, horrified, pictures of shock. They're a metre away and backing slowly further from the tiny inferno in front of them. There is no doubt in any of their minds that she is about to explode, or that her head is going to swivel completely round any second. This girl is dangerous and they are getting out of her way! Nope, no injury, just a good old-fashioned temper tantrum. I scoop her up and cart her back to bed. She wriggled into the sheets, her little bottom up in the air, her thumb securely in her mouth. A deep sigh escapes her. This is where she should have been all along. Phew!